


Chris Traeger's Ugly Sweater Party

by ryeloza



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Ensemble Fic, F/M, Humor, Season 3 Missing Christmas, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryeloza/pseuds/ryeloza
Summary: A series of misadventures throughout Chris’ Christmas party—festive sweaters required.
Relationships: Andy Dwyer/April Ludgate, Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	1. Leslie's Sweater Collection

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place during season 3, after "Fancy Party" but before "Soulmates."

On Friday night, Leslie shows up with a collection of sweaters piled so high in her arms that only her eyes peek out. It’s surprising in the way most things are with Leslie: an initial moment of shock followed by the inevitable hindsight that _of course_ Ann should have expected this since it is Leslie, after all. The moment she received Chris’ party invitation, in fact, she should have seen this coming—Leslie and an insane number of terrifying sweaters.

“Ann!” Leslie teeters into the house, finding the couch blindly and dumping the monstrous collection on the sofa. Immediately, she snatches up the nearest sweater, a blue backdrop with red and green snowflakes raining down, and holds it up to her chest. “What do you think?”

“Um…It’s vibrant?”

Leslie glances down at the sweater and then back at Ann. “No—Well, yes, it is, but I mean, isn’t it perfect for Chris’ ugly sweater party?”

“ _Ugly_ sweater party?” Ann thinks of the invitation she has pinned to the fridge: the glossy photograph on the front of Chris, grinning like a fool, both thumbs up, wearing a hideous red sweater with a large reindeer knitted over the chest (the picture she may have defaced with a sharpie by adding a villainous mustache and eye patch). The invitation that Leslie now pulls from her coat pocket, and shoves in Ann’s face, tapping her fingernail against the loopy, cursive text where Chris has advertised _: PARTY AT MY PLACE! PRIZE FOR THE MOST SPIRITED SWEATER!_

“Yeah,” says Ann, “it says _spirited_ sweater. Not ugly.”

“That’s just Chris-speak.” Leslie pockets the invitation again, dropping her sweater and shrugging out of her coat. “You know—positive spin. ‘Spirited.’”

The air quotes are a bit much, although Ann can see where the misinterpretation is apt. After all, there are much better adjectives to describe the sweater Chris is wearing: nightmarish; lame; unattractive; stupid. And, despite Chris’ love of the word, it’s not like he understands the meaning of literal. 

So maybe it’s not at all surprising that his party theme has been perverted.

“And the best part is that I finally get to help you pick out an outfit,” says Leslie, grabbing another sweater and tossing it at Ann. She catches it loosely and shakes her head.

“I’m not going, Les.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you’re going. It’s a Christmas party, Ann! You love Christmas. And parties.”

“It’s a party at Chris’. I’m sorry, but I can’t put up with a whole night of Chris Traeger’s finger pointing and confusing enthusiasm. It’s been bad enough still running into him all the time since we broke up.”

Leslie starts to groan before Ann even finishes speaking, turning and falling face-first into her large pile of sweaters. Her legs hang comically over the arm of the couch, but Ann is too stunned by the overreaction to laugh. She knows as far as embarrassing breakup stories go, hers is far from the top of the list compared to Leslie’s, but she thought Leslie got it: how hard it is to still have to see and hear about Chris; how annoying it is that he’s making overtures of friendship that she doesn’t want; how awful it feels to be continually reminded that she was much more into him than he ever was into her. Okay, so maybe she’s been a bit hung up on the breakup, but this party isn’t the occasion to suddenly get over it. The wound is still too fresh. 

Leslie flops onto her back like a fish, a few of the sweaters slithering to the floor as she does so. “Sorry,” she says. “I just feel like you’ve been missing everything lately.”

“Everything? Leslie, I’ve seen you four times already this week. We went out last Saturday night—“

“Yeah, but everything else. Andy and April’s wedding—“

“I wasn’t invited to that.” _Thank god._

“—Thanksgiving in the park, the tree lighting, and now this.”

Has it been that much, really? It feels like that disastrous camping trip just happened. “Okay,” she acquiesces. “Yeah, I guess listed like that…Maybe you have a point.” She sighs. “Sorry. But look, Leslie, this party is different. _Chris_ is hosting it. I can’t go. But I promise, no more skipping stuff without a real reason.”

Leslie is quiet. She lies there, staring at the ceiling, a little flushed from being smothered in a pile of wool in the warm house. Ann is fluent enough in Leslie by now to know that silence is an indicator that she’s building up to something—something probably only marginally related to what Ann thinks the problem is. She walks around the couch, sits down on the coffee table, and waits.

“Do you remember Ben? Ben Wyatt? Newly appointed assistant city manager Ben Wyatt?”

“Uh, yes.”

In a rush, Leslie exhales, “IthinkmaybeIhavefeelingsforhimandIkindofdefinitelywanttomakeoutwithhisface,” so incomprehensibly that Ann’s left reeling.

“Huh?”

“I think—maybe—I might like him. Like a lot. Especially his…face region, which I’d really kind of like to make out with.”

“Oh.” Ann leans forward and braces her arms on her legs, wondering if this is a supposed to be a new or surprising development. Given how much Leslie talks about Ben and the slightly moony look on her face when she does, it’s not that shocking. “And that’s a problem…?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“I’m not seeing the down side here, Les. I mean, he decided to stay. You like him. Ask him out.”

“I said I think I like him,” says Leslie, less than convincingly. “And what if he doesn’t like me? What if I ask him out and he says no and then it ruins our work relationship and every time I see him it’s an awkward mess until finally he has to quit and move to Germany?”

“Germany?”

“That’s how much distance it’ll take to get past the awkwardness.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s not going to happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Leslie…”

“Okay. Fine. Maybe not Germany. But the rest.”

“Why wouldn’t he say yes? And I swear, if the next words out of your mouth are ‘Why would he?’ I’m going to hit you.”

“No. No. I know.” Leslie sighs, picking up the cuff of one of the sweaters and playing with a loose thread. “I just don’t want to ruin everything. I really like working with him, Ann. It’s like there’s finally someone at City Hall who cares almost as much as I do, and he’s smart and organized and he has great ideas…I don’t want to lose that. I don’t know if I want to risk that.”

“What if he says yes and it’s amazing and everything works out?”

“The odds are stacked against that scenario, Ann.” She turns her head, chewing on her lip, brow furrowed. “I thought maybe if you came to the party, you could help me figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“If he likes me.”

“Oh. Oooh.” Just like that, everything clicks into place: how antsy Leslie’s acting; her impatience; her insistence that Ann come to the party. She tries to think back over the last few months, gauging a hazy picture of Ben’s behavior around Leslie, but it’s not anything she’d been paying particular attention to. Not when Leslie had never said anything directly about liking Ben before this; not in the middle of her breakup nightmare, a situation that, if she’s honest, has left her more than a little distracted. 

God, she really owes Leslie a million times over for the last few months. And the fact that Leslie would never lay it out in those terms—probably would never even think of it that way—pretty much seals her fate.

She shuts her eyes and suppresses a sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I will go to the party with you. I will help you figure out if this is a good idea or not. Although I’m going on record right now and say that if you do ask him out and he says no, he’s a total bonehead who doesn’t deserve you.”

Before Ann can blink, Leslie half-falls, half-rolls off of the couch, tackling her in a hug so hard that they both nearly topple onto the floor. “Thank you, Ann! I promise you can have first choice of ugly sweaters to wear to the party.”

“Great.”

In the end—the end being after hours of Leslie making Ann model every sweater, followed by Leslie modeling every sweater, and then an absurd deliberation over which is prize-winningly ugly (because of course, Leslie actually wants to win this)—Ann ends up in a green sweater with a snowman on the front. It’s actually probably the least offensive one, but Ann generously considers it more in the vein of “spirited” than “ugly.” Whatever the case, Leslie declares her so beautiful that she can make any ugly sweater look good, and then offers her condolences that Ann is definitely not going to win.’

Ann has a feeling that will be the least of her problems.


	2. Brown Sweater

Ron arrives at Chris’ party on Saturday night with a tray of deviled eggs and a bottle of whiskey. Although he staunchly disagrees with the idea and practice of sucking up, Leslie had made the faintly coherent point that Chris is their boss for the foreseeable future and attending would make an impression (followed by a lot of flowery nonsense about forging friendships and bonding that Ron has chosen to ignore). He plans to stay for one hour and fifteen minutes or until all edible food is gone, whichever comes first, and then he will leave. Standard Swanson party etiquette.

He rings the doorbell.

“Ron Swanson!” Chris grins at him, and then steps back and ushers him into the house. There is a miniature pond with fish in the foyer, and it strikes Ron as even more obnoxious than his apartment in Indianapolis. “May I take your…refreshments?”

“No, thank you.”

They stare at one another for a minute, and then Chris claps his hands. “Well allow me to take your coat, won’t you? I have set the temperature for ideal sweater-wearing conditions, since it is a spirited sweater—Oh. Oh Ron.”

Ron finishes taking off his jacket, folding it and handing it to Chris, who is agape. It’s more pleasant than the constant grinning. “Ron Swanson, is this your most spirited sweater?”

He has no idea what constitutes a spirited sweater; he has steadfastly ignored the office scuttlebutt on the matter all week. The fact that he is wearing a sweater at all tonight was not planned. 

“Yes.”

“Why this simply won’t do! There’s not even a hint of Christmas—a cheery red! A merry green!”

“Brown is the color of wood.” 

“Don’t worry,” says Chris, with all the classic signs of someone who has stopped listening. “I have many sweaters! We’ll find one that works!”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure!” Chris wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him, and starts to direct him through the house. “No one else is here yet. We have plenty of time to pick something out.”

Ron has the ability to black out horrifying situations, a skill perfected over two unbearable marriages. It is often advantageous in the moment, but returning to the present can be a nightmarish hellscape. This is one such instance. One minute, Ron finds himself pulled into Chris’ bedroom, and the next, he’s standing next to table of food he would never eat, wearing a too-tight red sweater with a Christmas tree knitted on the front. 

“Carrot stick?” Chris offers, holding out a tray. Ron cringes. “You look fantastic in that sweater! Very merry!”

“I need a deviled egg.”

Chris nods. “I put them in the fridge. They’re already so unhealthy, and if they went bad…Well, I’d hate to think what that would do to your colon. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a banana? It’s nature’s colon cleanser!”

Ron glances at his watch. He’s still the only one at the party, but that could just be because no one else was foolish enough to come. Maybe he’s lost an hour of his life and it’s nearly time to go. 

Ten minutes.

Fuck.

He turns to go to the kitchen, sensing more than hearing Chris follow him, but stops short as the music changes. A familiar saxophone rings out from a speaker, and Ron feels his gut lurch. Slowly, he turns to Chris. “This music…”

“Do you like it? It’s a local musician. This delightful woman at Grain and Simple was telling me about him. Duke Silver. This is his Christmas album. I must say, though, it’s unlike any Christmas music I’ve ever heard. I was hoping for a rousing rendition of ‘Jingle Bell Rock.’”

Ron looks at his watch again.

Twelve minutes.

“Let’s find those eggs,” he says.


	3. Homemade Sweater

Christmas is Andy’s favorite time of year for a lot of reasons. Presents. Snow. Snowmen. Snowball fights. Sled riding. Santa. Reindeer. Elves. Christmas songs. Christmas movies. Christmas trees. Christmas lights. Christmas cookies. Christmas parties.

Parties are a big one, actually. Everyone has parties at Christmas. There are even, as Andy discovered last year, parties at work. So basically, the entire month of December is a festival of free food. “And free food,” he told April as she groaned at the number of invitations, “is the way of life for the starving rock star.”

It had been a fair point to sway April to his side. They also had to come up with a list of ways to survive the less entertaining parties. This one tonight, at Chris’, had been particularly hard to convince her to attend. It wasn’t until Tom explained to everyone that it was an ugly sweater party and then April got her super awesome idea that she agreed to come.

He’s pretty sure April’s going to win the sweater prize. Although, he’s giving her a run for his money with this amazing sweater he found at his parents’ house. He’s pretty sure it was his grandma’s or something, and it’s three sizes too small and made out of this thick, chunky yarn that’s actually super soft, but also really ugly. April had given it a nod of approval before they left tonight.

They start at the food table, like always, because all they’ve eaten today is an old box of Twinkies and the rest of Burly’s girlfriend’s yogurt. April picks through some of the vegetables and then declares it gross. Andy eats a little more, and then starts looking for Leslie because chances are she brought cookies or something, but she’s not here yet.

“This place is weird,” says Andy, looking around the living room. “It’s like super clean. Suspiciously clean. And this Christmas tree has no smell.”

“It’s fake.”

“Oh. Well that’s dumb. And why are all of the ornaments white?”

“Because Chris is lame. And this party is lame. I told you it would be.”

Andy turns to her and puts one hand on her shoulder. “We’re just getting started. You brought your big purse, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to find you something great tonight.”

April kind of smiles. “Okay.”

“And you need to go have some fun with your sweater. Freak some people out.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Now go!”

Andy dashes away from her, kind of rolling over the couch and Jerry’s lap, and then flattening up against the wall so no one will notice him. He scans the room—a sea of people in terrible sweaters—and tries to focus on the Christmas decorations. Chris has taken a more bare bones approach than most of the other houses they’ve been at this month. He has the fake tree, which is butt ugly, and a sprig of mistletoe above the doorway to the foyer, but April hates mistletoe. There’s not even a nativity scene for April to rearrange inappropriately tonight—-another one of her favorite pastimes. 

No singing snowmen (too bad, as they’re Andy’s favorite); no Santa figurines; no lights; no reindeer shaped candle holders; no garlands. How the hell is he supposed to find something to add to their decoration collection tonight?

Andy begins to sidle toward the kitchen while taking a mental stock of what they’ve collected so far. April’s mom gave them that box of ornaments and his mom gave them that blanket to keep the tree warm (note: get a Christmas tree); they have that snowman that sings “Jingle Bells” that Andy got from her parents’ house; they’d left Ben and Derek’s party with a box of Christmas lights; and last night April had snagged a stuffed Santa from Orin’s parents. It’s all awesome, but Andy wants this Christmas to be beyond awesome. Like the best Christmas ever.

Not for the first time, he wonders if he can find enough lights to make their place look like that house in _Christmas Vacation_. 

And then—oh ho! What is this? Andy glances around the room, but no one’s paying attention to his ninja-like moves, and he manages to grab the bottle of whiskey without anyone noticing. It’s perfect; April likes whiskey, and if the decorations are lame, alcohol will certainly make up for it. Gleefully, Andy dashes into the kitchen and runs smack into Tom, who takes one look at him and then pretty grossly spits a mouthful of punch all over Andy’s chest.

“Eww,” Andy laughs, brushing at his shirt, and patting Tom on the back as he coughs. “That’s disgusting, dude.”

“Sorry, but Andy, where did you find that?”

“What?”

“The whiskey,” hisses Tom, grabbing Andy’s arm and pulling him away from the door. “I thought this was a dry campus. I was about to call Jean-Ralphio to come hook me up.”

“It was just sitting on a table,” he explains, not sure what Tom’s so excited about.

“Whose is it?”

“I dunno. Chris’? Or maybe Ron’s. It was sitting right next to Ron.”

“Daaaamn. You stole Ron’s whiskey? That is a baller move, my man.”

“Thanks. It’s for April.”

“What? No! Andy, please! I will give you twenty bucks for that right now!”

“Seriously?”

“Ugh—fine! Forty!”

“Deal!” 

Tom whips out his wallet, shelling out two twenties, and Andy snatches them and tosses him the bottle. Tom shrieks and catches it. “This is awesome, man. I can totally buy April something awesome for Christmas.”

“…Right. Well I’ll tell you what, Andy. I’ll give you another ten if you stand outside and guard the door. Don’t let anyone in here.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay!” Andy takes the proffered ten and then leaves the room, positioning himself on the other side of the door as acting security guard. It’s a job he takes seriously, practically chest bumping one guy out of the way.

It isn’t until a woman walks by wearing a sweater with a wreath that Andy gets a much better idea and abandons his post.


	4. Santa Jerry Sweater

“Stop looking at my boobs, Ben.”

“I’m not—I wasn’t—” April watches as Ben’s eyes flit all over the room, everywhere but at her, and feels that innate sense of satisfaction that comes from making him uncomfortable. He’s studying a particularly stupid sprig of mistletoe when he takes a deep breath and says, “I was just wondering if that’s Jerry. On your—uh—your sweater.”

“It’s Santa Jerry.”

“Oh.”

“What? Chris said this was an ugly sweater party, right?”

“Spirited, actually…”

“Well this is the _spirit_ of ugly Christmas. Look: his eyes follow you wherever you go.” April arches her back a bit and rocks her chest back and forth—a move that actually makes Ben a little wild eyed.

“Please stop.”

“What, Ben? It’s just Santa Jerry. Don’t you want to sit on his lap? Whisper your Christmas list in his ear? What is it you want for Christmas, Ben?”

Ben runs both hands through his hair at the same moment Andy walks up to her, hands laced suspiciously behind his back. “Hey babe,” he says, eyes scanning the room. “What’s up?”

“Ben was just staring at my boobs.”

“I wasn’t! God, Andy, I swear—”

“Dude, isn’t it freaky how Jerry’s eyes follow you?” asks Andy, unfazed by her words or Ben’s near panic attack. “It’s like she has eyes in the front of her boobs or something.”

“Um…”

“What did you get?” she asks. She tugs a bit on the sleeve of Andy’s sweater, and he turns to flash the wreath that was on Chris’ front door. “That’s not gonna fit in my purse.”

“I thought you brought the big one.”

“Not that big.”

“What are you two doing?” Ben interrupts, raising an eyebrow at the wreath. 

“Top secret. You’re not cleared to know.”

“Are you _stealing_ Christmas decorations?

“What? No!” Andy laughs loudly and then leans into Ben’s personal space, dropping his voice. “Dude, it’s brilliant. We take a couple things every time we’re invited to a Christmas party. It was April’s idea.”

“That’s…horrible.”

“We can’t afford decorations, Ben, okay?”

“Besides,” says Andy, “it’s not stealing if it’s from people you love.”

“What?”

Andy slings his arm around Ben’s shoulders, the bow at the top of the wreath attacking Ben’s face, and adopts an air of wisdom. “I recommend a little movie called _The Grinch_. It’s April’s favorite. Same concept.”

“No. Not at all.”

“I think maybe you better watch it again.”

“Look, we’re not gonna take the stupid wreath,” says April, taking it from Andy’s hand. She takes extra care to rub the pine needles in Ben’s face as she does so. “Happy, Ben?”

“Yeah…” Ben shakes his head and disentangles himself from Andy’s grip. “I need to not be here anymore.”

April sets the wreath on the table behind her as Ben disappears back into the crowd of people, and then grabs Andy’s hands. “Do you want to go find Jerry and feel me up in front of him? Make him watch you molest his own face?”

“Hell yes.”


	5. Sexy Santa Sweater

“Donna Meagle! Ron Swanson!”

Donna can hear Ron groan under his breath as Chris bounds across the room to them. He has red and green markers in one hand and slips of paper in the other. “Have you had the chance to vote for the most spirited sweater yet? I think everyone has a fantastic chance of winning! Especially Ron!”

Chris winks, and Donna can actually feel Ron shudder beside her. Hurriedly, he shoves his last deviled egg in his mouth and then claps his hand over Chris’ shoulder. “It has been an evening, Chris.”

“Ron, you’re not leaving! The party’s just getting started!”

Chris catches Ron in an awkward half-hug and squeezes, effectively preventing him from fleeing. “Now, I’m staying out of the race for the best sweater since I will be counting the votes, but I literally cannot wait to see who wins.”

“I think Leslie’s got it in the bag,” says Donna, reaching out and plucking a marker from Chris’ hand. 

“She does look festive. Although, your sweater is also very spirited, Donna! Who is that?”

“That is a shirtless Ryan Gosling with a Santa hat—the true spirit of Christmas.”

“It is delightful. It reminds me of when I was once asked to pose in only a Santa hat.”

“Oh _really?_ ”

“Yes. It was a calendar fundraiser. I was December. Quite an interesting experience.”

“And where might a woman with a keen appreciation for the male form get a copy of this calendar?”

“Oh, it was never finished. Sadly, October dropped out. Self-confidence issues, I fear. Although I do still have copies of my pictures somewhere.”

“You know, Chris, you would make a fine sexy Santa sweater.”

“Thank you!”

“And it’s a real shame that no one ever got to see those photos.”

“I agree, Donna.”

“So what do you say if we take a look at those pictures and see about making a new sweater.”

“Donna. Meagle. That is a fantastic idea!” He turns and throws an arm around Donna as well, a situation she appreciates much more than Ron, who openly grimaces at every word Chris says. “Maybe we could even look into making a new calendar. With pants this time, of course. Wouldn’t want to upset the citizens of Pawnee.”

“No one would complain, Chris. Trust me.”

“I would.”

“Oh, Ron.” Chris grips both of them a bit tighter. “You know, you would make an excellent October. Come, let’s walk and talk. Find those pictures!”


	6. Maroon Cashmere Sweater

When the kitchen door swings open, Tom jumps, silently cursing Andy for being a terrible lookout, and quickly hides Ron’s bottle of whiskey behind his back. Fortunately, it’s neither Chris nor, worse, Ron who enters. “God, Ben!” he snaps, quietly breathing a sigh of relief. “Don’t sneak up on people!” 

“I wasn’t. I was just looking for…” Ben frowns at him. “What are you doing?”

“Going old school. Deflowering this virgin elixir.”

“Huh?”

“Jeez. I’m spiking the punch, Ben!”

“What? Tom!”

“Ben, seriously. Did you know Chris has failed to offer even one alcoholic beverage?”

“Yeah? Well, Chris doesn’t drink.”

“So the rest of us have to suffer?” He turns back to the punch and continues to pour in the rest of Ron’s whiskey. There’s not much left. “And dude, what the hell are you wearing? Did you borrow that from your twelve-year-old sister? The theme was ugly sweaters, not pathetic.”

Ben stares pointedly at Tom’s sweater—an expensive maroon, cashmere v-neck—and Tom shrugs. “I couldn’t do it, man. This body is meant to look good.”

The kitchen door opens again just as Tom finishes off the bottle. He hands it to Ben, who immediately panics and scrambles to hide the evidence while Tom picks up the ladle to stir the punch. Still fumbling, Ben crams the bottle down his sweater, and then turns to face the door. “Hey, Ann…” he says shakily. “How’s it going?”

“What the hell are you two up to? Tom?”

“Hey, cupcake. Just perfecting Chris’ punch recipe.” He pours a cup and hands it to Ann. “Taste.”

Ann sniffs the cup. “Did you put alcohol in this?”

“What? No.”

“Liar.” She sips it and her eyes widen. “Wow. That is…potent.”

“But much improved.”

For the third time in five minutes, the door swings open, and yeah, this is definitely the last time Tom ever uses Andy as a guard. Especially since this time it is Chris _and_ Ron, huddled together as some weird manwich and followed by Donna, who is fanning herself with a photograph. “Ben Wyatt!” shouts Chris. “Just the man I was looking for!”

“Chris.” Ben shifts uncomfortably, probably because he still has the whiskey bottle in his shirt, and shoots a panicked look in Tom’s direction. “We weren’t—”

“Do you remember a few years ago when Theresa wanted to make that Red Hot Auditors calendar to raise money for homeless gorillas?”

“Wait,” says Donna, “don’t tell me Ben was October?”

Ben frowns at her and tries to cross his hands over his chest, an awkward move with the bottle. To Chris he says, “If you’re talking about that amateur porn shoot crazy Theresa tried to do in her garage before she got fired, then yes.”

Chris laughs. “You are a treat, Ben Wyatt. I was just showing Donna the photos from my shoot, and we thought it might be a fabulous idea to make a new calendar. With pants this time, of course.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I think it’s a great idea!” interrupts Tom, elbowing Ben out of the way. “Except instead of shirtless men, let’s make it ladies in their underwear. And instead of people we know, let’s hire professional models. Swimsuit models.”

“Has anyone seen my whiskey?” asks Ron. Ben twitches, and way too obviously begins to back out of the room. “I am going to need alcohol if I’m going to be required to remain at this party.”

“Nonsense, Ron. Here. Try some punch.”

Chris pours Ron a glass and then, to Tom’s delighted horror, gets a glass for himself and throws it back in one hit. Everyone stares—even Ben, frozen in his progress out of the room—and watches as Chris smacks his lips. “That is…quite good. Unusual, though. I think perhaps I added too much nectarine.”

Ron takes a sip as well, eyes narrowing in a pointed glare at Tom. “Haverford!” he bellows. “May I see you in the other room, please?”

“I’d rather stay in here.”


	7. Snowman Sweater

Ben hides behind the door as Ron physically drags Tom into the other room, and Ann watches as he takes advantage of everyone being distracted to pull the whiskey bottle out from under his sweater and hide it in a plant that hangs from Chris’ ceiling. It’s a good call, since Ron is probably out for blood. Chris, meanwhile, is on his third cup of punch in as many minutes, and has begun to giggle vociferously.

“This is so good!” he raves, ladling himself another cup. “Have you all tried this? It’s so fantabulously yummerific.”

“Oh—Okay, Chris,” says Ann, crossing the room and putting a hand over his cup to keep him from drinking any more. “I think that’s enough punch.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“Tom spiked the punch,” Ben mutters. Donna’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. 

“Seriously? That is the fastest I’ve ever seen alcohol go to someone’s head.”

“Ann Perkins!” slurs Chris—and, wow, Donna is right. This is hitting Chris hard and fast. He slings an arm over Ann’s shoulders, and she struggles to hold his weight. “That is a very smiley snowmen. Snowman. Man of snow.”

“Uh, thank you?”

“Why don’t we go build one? A real one. Outside. Where the snow is.”

Ann shakes her head, shooting a slightly desperate look at Donna and Ben, the latter of whom crosses the room and backs Chris onto a chair. “I’ll make some coffee,” Donna offers. 

“Chris doesn’t drink coffee,” Ann mutters. “There’s probably none here. But Chris,” she shakes him a bit. “Chris, do you have any tea? Or juice?”

“I have fruit punch!”

“Yeah, okay.” She turns back to Donna. “Can you watch him? Have him drink some water. Leslie snuck in her own food supply, and I’m pretty sure she’ll have something that can help sober him up.”

“Yep. Come on, bionic man. Let’s get some water and go finish polling people about their favorite sweaters.”

“Yours is my favorite,” says Chris, standing up and leaning in to give Donna a loud smack on the lips. “And yours too, Ann!” He turns toward her, stumbling forward, and before she realizes what’s happening, his lips are on hers too, warm and soft against hers, his tongue sweet with the taste of fruit punch. For a split second, she forgets herself, leaning in to the kiss and shutting her eyes, and then she abruptly pulls back. Chris doesn’t notice, merely turning toward Ben and cawing, “Yours too, Ben Wyatt!” He lurches toward Ben, but Donna grabs him by the back of his sweater and Ben ducks out of the way, following Ann as she flees the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” asks Ben, continuing to trail after her even once they’re safely out of reach of Chris. Ann barely hears him, her eyes scanning the room for Leslie. 

“What? Oh—Oh yeah. I’m great. Just great.”

“I can tell.”

Ann rounds on him, ready to take her rage and frustration out on the nearest person, but it’s hard to make that person Ben when he’s just standing there with his hands in his pockets, actually looking concerned. “Look,” he says, “Chris can be kind of a jerk sometimes. And alcohol pretty much amplifies all jackassery. It’s a dangerous combination.”

“Yeah,” agrees Ann. It’s a fair, if mild assessment. “I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

“No, hey. Don’t let him get you down. Just think about how miserable he’s going to be tomorrow when he realizes that he spent the night drinking and being fed food that Leslie would approve of.”

Ann manages a small smile at the thought. “I think she brought cookies.”

“And knowing Leslie they have a ridiculous amount of chocolate in them. Or icing. Or both.” He smiles, ducking his head a little bit, this cute, shy, dopey move that clearly speaks more to his mention of Leslie than the idea of vengeance. That is not the look of a man seeking revenge.

“You guys have been spending a lot of time together lately, huh?”

“What?” Ben rubs a hand over the back of his neck and shifts his weight. “Uh, yeah…I—I guess. At work. Professionally. Like…uh…colleagues.”

Ann stares at him, waiting for him to stop stammering, but the silence only seems to egg him on.

“We—uh—that is Leslie is…a fantastic person—coworker. I really like, um, working with her…and…and stuff.”

“And stuff,” echoes Ann, folding her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. She’s pretty sure it’s the “and stuff” that Leslie would like to expand on. And if this horrifyingly awkward conversation isn’t proof that Ben feels the same, Ann isn’t sure what is. “Right. Well, I happen to know that she likes working with you too. And stuff.”

“She does?”

“Yep. She was really happy when you decided to stay.”

“Yeah?”

Ann nods, watching as Ben’s smile grows. And god, he’s obviously as clueless about this as Leslie, which probably explains why if he does like her—and Ann would bet money that he does—he hasn’t asked her out yet. Which means at this rate, it’s going to take a miracle to get one of them to man up and do this. 

Well, Leslie has often told Ann she is a miracle worker.

And it is Christmas.

“Look, Ben,” she says, finding it easier than she should to feign weariness; this really has been a long night. “I appreciate the pep talk, but this has been a pretty shitty night, so I think I’m going to head home.”

“Oh…Okay.”

“Can you do me a favor, though? I gave Leslie a ride over here. Can you find her for me and let her know I’m leaving and tell her not to worry? Give her a ride home at the end of the night?”

“I…Yes. I can do that. Absolutely.”

“Great. Thank you.” She pats Ben on the arm and smiles. 

Operation Sexy Christmas Elf—as Leslie grossly dubbed it—is a go.


	8. Penguin Sweater

It takes Ben almost a half an hour to find Leslie.

It’s a chaotic search. Without Chris at the helm, Tom has changed the music and the house fairly vibrates with the level of the bass. Ron has absconded with the punch, and Donna has taken advantage of Chris’ affectionate inebriation to drag him underneath every sprig of mistletoe in the house. Even more disturbing, April and Andy are actually following Jerry around the house so they can make out in front of him, and Ben keeps bumping into them as he looks for Leslie.

He also narrowly avoids Orin twice.

The entire time he’s torn between feeling giddy—that heart-racing excitement that comes innately at any opportunity to be near Leslie—and guilty over feeling happy because it’s all thanks to Ann’s misery. Maybe he should sit down with Chris and have a little talk about his ignorant harassment of his ex-girlfriend. Because undoubtedly, Chris doesn’t actually get what’s going on.

Ben supposes it’s a side effect from wanting to be friends with everyone, always.

In the end, it’s one of the park rangers who points him in the right direction, shouting loudly that he thought he saw Leslie head toward the bedroom. And then it takes a couple minutes of concerted effort to separate the idea of Leslie and bedroom into two distinct, unrelated entities. An admirable attempt that goes right out the window the second he steps into the room and actually sees Leslie sitting on the bed.

Chris’ bed. Chris _Traeger’s_ bed. 

It’s the most sobering thought he can muster. To moderate success.

“Hey!” says Leslie, standing up quickly and brushing the front of her sweater with her hand. “I wasn’t doing anything! Just checking on the coats. You know. Safety.”

“Ann told me you brought cookies.”

“Oh.” Leslie bends and pulls out a bag from underneath a coat, holding it out toward Ben. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’m full.”

“Seriously?”

“No, I’m starving,” he says, stepping forward and pulling out a cookie. “I should have thought to bring provisions.”

Leslie smiles as he takes a bite—it’s chocolate, chocolate chip with a generous dollop of chocolate icing on top, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to go into a sugar coma, but it’s delicious. He gives a little moan of approval, and Leslie’s eyes brighten. “This is excellent.”

“Thanks. I have sugar cookies, too, if you want.”

Ben nods as Leslie sits back down and digs through the pocket of her coat, and when she pats the space next to her on the bed, he only hesitates for a second before joining her. He leaves a good two feet of space between them, though, for propriety’s sake, a caution Leslie doesn’t appear to share. She immediately shifts closer, setting the bags of cookies between them and biting off the head of a snowman sugar cookie.

“I’ve, uh, been looking for you,” says Ben.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Uh, Ann decided to head home early. Everything’s okay, but Chris…Well, Chris was being Chris. Time ten.”

“Is she okay? Damn, I should have never forced her to come tonight. She really didn’t want to.”

“She said not to worry.”

Leslie sighs. “Poor, beautiful, snow angel Ann.” She glances at the cookies. “I should make her some Chris-is-an-idiot-who-doesn’t-deserve-you Christmas cookies.”

“Decorate a gingerbread man in workout clothes. It might feel good to bite the head off.”

Leslie giggles, reaching down and snagging a Santa cookie. “We can pretend Santa is future Chris—fat and bearded.”

“Cookie therapy.”

They smile at each other, a look that lingers a beat longer than usual, and then Leslie drops her eyes to his chest. “I love your sweater,” she says. 

“Oh. Thanks. It’s actually—”

And then his brain stops working. 

Because Leslie reaches out and touches his chest. 

Deliberately.

“I should make one like this,” she says, tracing her fingers over his pectoral muscles and down his sternum. Ben can barely hear what she’s saying, he’s so focused on her touch—on the fact that he’d swear his skin is burning even with a layer of knitted fabric between them. “I love penguins. And they’re holding hands and ice skating…It’s like cuteness cubed…” 

Ben turns toward her, his knee bumping into hers as he angles his body toward hers, and he takes a deep breath. It’s not where he imagined doing this—Chris’ bedroom of all places, with a party going on just outside the door—but he’s alone with her and she’s—maybe, probably—giving him some kind of signal, and if there was ever a time to take a chance and kiss her—

“Wait!” Leslie shouts. Ben jumps back, leaping off of the bed and running a hand through his hair, already muttering apologies for merely having the thought of kissing her. “This is an ugly sweater party,” she says accusingly, ignoring his near-epileptic fit. “Did you wear that sweater because you thought it was _ugly_?”

Ben stares at her. “Um—No. I mean, the invitation said spirited, not ugly.” Leslie raises a skeptical eyebrow and Ben stutters to explain. “Chris’ grandmother made me this sweater. She—She’s made me one for the past three Christmases, and this was last year’s…I mean, you know that’s why Chris is having this party, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“His grandmother died last spring. And this—I mean, I guess this was the best way he could think of to honor her.”

“Oh god. And everyone’s been calling it an ugly sweater party.” She stands up, coming over and swatting his upper arm. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I did…” He did. Several times. 

“I mean about his grandmother.”

“Oh. Well, I think it’s okay. I mean, Chris doesn’t know you guys reinterpreted the theme. I think he’s just happy that everyone showed up in a sweater.”

Leslie reaches out and takes his hand, dragging him across the room to the door—not that Ben’s complaining. “Come on,” she says determinedly. “We need to set everyone straight before someone says something to Chris.”


	9. No Sweater

Jerry finally manages to sneak away without Andy and April noticing, creeping toward the bedroom with the plan to hide out until this party is over. Just as he reaches the door, it swings open, nearly hitting him in the face as Leslie barges out of the room with Ben. She glares at Jerry, and he starts to apologize, only to be interrupted.

“Dammit, Jerry! You own even more Christmas sweaters than I do! Why the hell aren’t you wearing one?”

“I…I forgot, Leslie. I’m sorry.”

She rolls her eyes and stalks past him.

“Dammit, Jerry,” mutters Ben.

At least the night starts to look up after that. Jerry finds two bags of cookies abandoned in the bedroom.


	10. Poinsettia Sweater

“Friends!”

Chris feels a bit unsteady, almost as though he’s swaying, and he wonders if climbing up on this table was the best idea. It seemed like a good idea in theory. He can see everyone at his party, all of his wonderful friends, having a great time and smiling. 

So yes. Brilliant idea.

After all, what’s a little vertigo when the view is so splendid?

“Friends!” he says again, placing one hand back on the wall this time just to steady himself. “I want to thank all of you for coming to my party and helping me to celebrate this most festivetacular holiday season!”

There’s a cheer from the crowd, and Chris grins, holding up the class of punch he managed to steal from Ron before he climbed up on the table. “There are so many reasons to be joyous this year. New friends and old! New job! New home! New, exciting opportunities! I have literalbly never been more happy.

“But some of you may not know that this party is also a way to remember…A way for me to honor my amazing Granny, who passed away earlier this year.”

Chris looks down at his sweater, running a hand over the knitted poinsettia, and then back out into the crowd—at the sea of festive sweaters that he knows his grandmother would have loved. “She knitted me a Christmas sweater every year, and I could think of no better way to celebrate her than by hosting a spirited sweater party…” He trails off, unable to speak around the lump in his throat, tears burning his eyes that he doesn’t bother to blink away. “I…”

He sobs, openly, the tears slipping over his cheeks and running down to drip onto the fabric of his sweater. 

It’s Ben that intervenes. Wonderful Ben, his best friend, who loved Granny Traeger as much as Chris did even though they only met once. He steps through the crowd and climbs up on the table with Chris, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder and holding his own cup of punch out to the crowd. “To Chris’ grandmother,” he says, as calm and steady as always. “A really lovely person.”

Chris watches as his guests toast, and then turns to smile at Ben, who raises his own glass and takes a sip of punch. Chris follows suit, swigging back the contents of his glass, and then turning and planting a kiss on Ben’s cheek. “Thank you, Ben,” he says seriously. “That was the most moving toast I have ever heard.”

“Sure, Chris. No problem.”

“And now,” Chris says, turning back to the crowd, “I also want to announce the winner of the spirited sweater contest!” He tries to bend and pick up the package he set on the table before he climbed up, but his knees don’t seem to work right and his tears are kind of blurring his view. Luckily, Ben is there to grab it, holding it out as Chris nearly jumps in excitement. “By an overwhelming majority, I am pleased to present this prize to Leslie Knope! Come up here, Leslie!”

Leslie looks as thrilled as Chris knew she would be as she approaches the table amongst the applause, reaching out and taking the box from Ben’s hands. “Thanks,” she says, smiling at Chris. She turns. “And thank you everyone! This is a real honor.”

“Open it!”

“Yeah! What’s the prize?”

Leslie looks back at Chris, who nods excitedly, and she rips the paper off and opens the box, pulling out and unfolding a sweater that depicts two penguins building a snowman.

“A Granny original,” says Chris, and Leslie nods, fingering it. 

“It’s perfect.”

It is.


	11. Winning Sweater

Leslie stands in the snow, staring down at the ground and watching the blinking lights on her sweater create colorful patterns against the white canvass. The battery pack clipped to the back of her jeans is starting to run low, and it’s become almost uncomfortably warm where it touches her skin, but the effect of the little lights lining Santa’s workshop on her sweater was clearly worth it. Prize-winningly worth it.

“You ready to go?”

She doesn’t turn, enjoying the sound of Ben’s feet crunching in the snow as he comes up next to her. He’s close enough that she could reach out and grab his hand again if she wanted (which she does, more than she’s ready to admit), but without impulsiveness or purpose powering her, she can’t bring herself to make the move.

“Did you get Chris to stop crying?”

“Uh, well…Donna offered to stay until he sobers up. I think she’s enjoying how over-affectionate the alcohol has made him.”

Leslie looks over at him and smiles. “So…” 

“So…” He smiles back, and Leslie bites her lip, wishing she knew what he was thinking. Wishing she could find the courage to take a risk. Wishing that he could. “I guess,” he says, glancing down at the ground and then back at her, “I guess I should get you home.”

Leslie nods. “Actually…Could you take me to Ann’s? I want to make sure she’s okay after all of this.”

“Sure.”

They stare at one another for a beat. The cold stings Leslie’s cheeks and nose, probably tinting them a ridiculous red, but Ben’s looking at her like it maybe doesn’t matter. He’s looking her like maybe he wants to kiss her—and dammit, _why won’t he just kiss her?_

Screw it.

She leans over and nudges him with her shoulder, taking the opportunity to grasp his hand again, threading her gloved fingers around his bare ones, feeling a little bit brave even though it’s far from everything she wants to do. Ben glances down at their joined hands and then squeezes.

“So, prize-winner, I guess next Christmas we’re going to match, huh?”

He looks like he regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Leslie feels the butterflies in her stomach flutter like mad at the words. She wonders what next Christmas will bring. If she’ll be able to do more than hold Ben’s hand in a year. If they’ll still be working as a team.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “We will.”

Ben gives her a small, pleased smile, and before Leslie realizes what’s happening, he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek. It’s brief, just a brush of his warm lips against her skin, but Leslie flushes, a little dizzy from the touch.

“Ben…”

Whatever she planned to say—she really couldn’t say what was going to come out of her mouth—it’s interrupted by a loud shout that echoes through the still night air and breaks the spell between them. “Hey! Hey Leslie! Ben!”

They turn, still holding hands, and see April and Andy across the lawn. Andy has a kitchen knife in his hand, and he’s making a fruitless attempt to cut down a pine tree with it. “Hey! Do either of you guys have an ax by chance?”

Ben raises an eyebrow. “No…”

“Damn it.”

Andy scratches his head and then takes another chop at the tree. April watches impassively, only stamping her feet now and then against the cold.

“Should we stop them?” asks Leslie.

“No. They’ll probably give up before they do any real damage. I’m pretty sure that’s a butter knife.”

Leslie giggles, but her laughter dissolves as Ben turns back to her, a seriousness in his eyes that doesn’t match the smile on his face, and god, she can’t wait to talk to Ann about all of this. Even though nothing more is going to happen tonight, it feels more likely now than ever that it will. 

“Merry Christmas, Leslie,” he says softly.

Someday.

“Merry Christmas, Ben.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you have a moment to leave a comment, it will be well-loved and appreciated.


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